September is a strange time of the year.

The apricots will be ripe, apples on the ground, a strange chill in the air. September is a strange time of the year. I woke up early for my flight; Delhi was still warm, in Delhi the warm hangs in the air, a thick moist warm like a person who is not your friend. My friend dropped me in the airport in his motorbike, we climbed the Ashram flyover as the sun rays brushed against the dust of Delhi morning. The sweepers are sweeping away the paper cups and torn newspaper pieces of yesterday. I always feel bad about leaving Delhi. Delhi is not home, I don’t have a place to stay, still Delhi is home. Somehow the dirty, ugly, cruel city feels like home; the heat feels known, the rudeness negotiable, the greenbuses comfortable. The city I came of age is Delhi, which makes me nostalgic about it. The unimportance and feeling of being no one is what makes me feel at home in Delhi. I took the flight, reached Leh. It was Muharram.